Photograph
by athenasqueen
Summary: There were times when he wished things were different.


The hands that lifted the photograph from his desk caused him to look up from the mound of paperwork Art had basically thrown in his direction, eyes coming to rest on the rangy Marshal who had picked it up. The older man was staring at it in a rather unabashed way, and with a sigh, Tim found himself on his feet, reaching out to pluck the frame from his hands.

"Do you mind?' he asked, setting it back down on the desk before settling himself back into his chair, attention going back to the paperwork in front of him. Paperwork that quite possibly needed to be finished by the end of the day. The hand reached down again, though this time, the other Deputy was met with a steely glare, and he withdrew his hand on his own.

"Who is she?" Raylan asked, almost as if he expected Tim to dignify his question with a response. Of course, the ensuring silence that might follow would probably only prompt him to ask again and Tim figured it would be better to herd his questions off now while he still could.

"Just someone I once knew," came his stony reply, hoping that would be the end of it. He should have figured all that would have done was pique the curiosity of Raylan. Instantly, he could tell that wasn't good enough for the older Marshal and the questions forming in his mind, like wheels churning. "She used to write letters to me when I was over in Afghanistan. Are we done now?"

Even Raylan wasn't idiotic enough to push the boundaries when it came to that topic. The war was not something Tim spoke about often, and the rest of the office, save with the exception of Nelson it seemed, knew that. With a sigh, running a hand through his hair, he gave a slight shrug, not sure if it was meant as an apology for snapping at the older Marshal or simply a habitual action.

"Her name's Darcy King. She thought it would be a good idea to write overseas to the troops. She probably wouldn't have if she had known she was going to get me," he said, answering the unspoken questions. _She certainly would have avoided it if she had of known what was going to follow, _he thought to himself grimly. _I know I sure as hell would have._

It had been messy, the end, though Tim knew he had no one to blame but himself. He couldn't cope with his return from that shithole, and he had dragged her down with him. He had been blind and selfish at the time, relied too much on her good heart to try and get him through his adjustment back. And she had tried, she really had. But he had walled himself off, wouldn't really accept the help. And it had torn an irreparable rift between him the day he had walked out without even so much as a goodbye.

She hadn't written to him after he had left and frankly, Tim didn't blame her. He had been a world class jackass the last time he had seen her. And now that he realised that, the former army ranger figured it was probably too late to repair the damage he had caused. After a good four years, what could he possibly say that would make any difference?

Raylan had gone now, though Tim hadn't even realised it, so caught up in the memories of the past. His hand inched towards the photograph he had kept of her, the only one he had. It was worn and creased from how many times he had folded and unfolded it over there. She was laughing, honey brown hair falling on her face from the wind as she attempted to push it back. She had a baggy bomber jacket on, and sunglasses covering her eyes, though he could vividly remember the colour of her eyes if he couldn't see them. A warm chocolate brown that he knew would be lit up with amusement under those glasses.

He could still remember the day she had sent it, a week after he had sent her the one of himself with the pink scarf she had made him. The laughter that had followed him around the day he wore it had been worth it. He still had that scarf, lying tucked away in the corner of a cupboard. Looking at it brought back painful reminders he would have much preferred to forget, and so it had been there since his return.

His fingers brushed against the glass that held the tattered photograph, his thumb along the lines of her face. He remembered all of them as well, the picture clear in his mind whenever he shut his eyes. Just like he remembered her laugh. It used to fill the room, a husky sultry sound that could never fail to bring a grin to his own face. She hadn't laughed as much towards the end.

It was times like this he often wondered what she was doing, where life had taken her. Had she ever settled down, found herself a decent man? Of course, such questions often caused an ache in his chest, and more often than not, Tim found himself burying them, not wanting to know. But there were times when he found himself thinking of what could have been, if only he hadn't been so stubborn.

Their life would have been simple, for Darcy had never been the kind of girl to go over the top, and he had always been a rather simple man. It had been one of the few things he loved about her. That, and her unconditional, unwavering support. Even during his time in Afghanistan, she trusted that he would do the right thing, that he would make it home alive, though she rarely voiced it aloud. He knew he would have married her, had even picked out the ring. But he had left that there with the note the day he had walked out.

And as much as he wanted to set things right, to see her even just once again, that time had long since passed him by. She was gone, he had let her go. There was no one else to blame for the mistake he had made all those years ago. And now all he had left of her was a tattered old photograph.


End file.
